


Hand Ride

by eko (togina)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togina/pseuds/eko
Summary: A few months ago, Samuel had been with his family, kicking the heels of his brother's boots and snarling at John. Azazel didn't understand how he had disappeared - but if anyone could tell him, it was the brother who'd never let Samuel out of his sight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "Hand Ride" is "when the jockey urges a horse just with his/her hands and does not use the whip," according to Wikipedia.
> 
> There are sort of consent issues, because Azazel has not outed himself as a demon, but since it's more or less a random hook-up, it's mildly dubious but not clear mistaken identity.
> 
> This is set in late 2002, if we assume that Sam was in the beginning of his fourth year at Stanford when Dean got him.

Azazel had been busy. It took time, this thing, so many generations of children rendered unworthy by their sniveling humanity, forcing him to put another score of infants to the teat, none of them ever quite enough to overcome.

None of them until Samuel Winchester. Parents didn’t pick favorites, of course, but one look at the boy put him miles ahead of his closest competitors, weaklings still certain that the world was tediously, dreadfully sane. Parents didn’t choose, but demons gambled with their very souls, and Azazel was betting on Sam.

Sam, who had managed to disappear.

It had only been a few months since Azazel had seen him last, sulking boy with a gun tucked into the waistband of his brother’s too-short jeans, dragging behind his family on a ghoul hunt in the Missouri swamps. Terrible place to be, in the sweltering heat of July, and Azazel’s most obstinate child seemed to agree, complaining about the bandana he’d soaked through, about the mosquitoes, about the leeches his brother dangled gleefully in front of his face.

The leeches had made Azazel smile. If only they knew just how precious that blood was, power coursing through the youngest Winchester’s aorta, pulsing through him and sending him running too hot into the fight.

Of course, the only fights young Samuel ran into were the ones with his family. An hour later the boy had threatened to return to the car, and his father had offered to help him along with a swift kick in the derriere.

John Winchester. Azazel hadn’t been expecting him. He had thought the fire would die with Mary — sparks and flame, a warrior princess and the perfect mother for . . . Well, for what he had planned. Without John, that fire might have been banked, lying dormant in Samuel’s blood until it stagnated and spoiled, curdled like milk gone bad. But no. Samuel’s father had a _quest_ , and he built the boys like a blacksmith hammering knives at the forge, hammer and unforgiving iron and white-hot flame.

Azazel only wished that he had made a deal with John Winchester’s mother years before.

None of that explained where Samuel Winchester had gone, between the dripping swamps of July and November, a dusting of snow across the frozen fields of Minnesota. The other two were there: John headed toward a town and a family he refused to share — and, oh, John Winchester grew better by the year, a wine Azazel couldn’t wait to uncork — the older boy looking for a banshee outside the Twin Cities.

The older boy didn’t look too good, in the winter light. Azazel had always wondered — if he’d gotten to Mary a few years earlier, Dean would be _his_ , and he’d measured the boys by handspan, by their canters and their nerves at the starting gate — but this, this unkempt, forlorn version of Dean Winchester was an affront, was good for nothing but cannon fodder in the army his brother would raise.

Still. This version of Dean Winchester was sloppy, and Azazel never shut the door when opportunity knocked.

It only took a few drinks, since Dean had started hours before Azazel found a nice young thing to wear to the bar, a boy with brown hair and dimples and gangling limbs that he couldn’t control.

“Buy you a drink?” he offered, sliding onto the next stool and nearly toppling off again, unaccustomed to the awkward sprawl of growing legs and arms. Dean caught him without looking, without pause, and Azazel didn’t bother to hide his grin. “You look like you’re wanting for company.”

Dean looked him over, nice and slow, started with the oversized tennis shoes and wandered up the seams of Levi’s that had never seen grave dirt, never been torn through with claws or mended by a boy more used to working with needle and skin. Paused at the gauche silver belt buckle before trailing up the edges of a flannel shirt Azazel had made certain to wear.

Dean shrugged, and turned back to stare at the neck of his beer. “’f you’re buying,” he said, quiet and hoarse like he’d gone three rounds with the hangman before dark.

It was the best deal Azazel had ever struck, the cost of a few beers and a few shots of something more sulfuric than hellfire to match. He licked his lips to catch the dregs, and Dean’s green eyes — Mary’s eyes, hunter’s eyes — followed the pink tip of his tongue.

“I’ve got a room,” he murmured, rolling the words across the young man’s voice he’d claimed. Azazel wasn’t stupid; he wasn’t going to follow Dean Winchester to bed only to be stopped at the door. It was far safer to have a room of his own, one without cat’s eyes, and exorcisms, and salt.

“Yeah?” Dean Winchester drawled, splaying his legs wide enough for this body to fit between, and, yes, Azazel was more than happy with the deal he’d made. “Sure you’re ready for that?”

Azazel had been ready for this for _years_ , and never realized it until he had the oldest Winchester boy before him, green eyes dark with lust and bright whenever they caught on the boy’s hair, or the dimples bracketing his grin.

“More than you know,” he answered, wrapping a boy’s sweaty fingers around Dean’s wrist and dragging him to bed.

 

“You look like you need a partner,” Azazel said, dragging a pointer finger across the ribbons of scars on Dean Winchester’s chest. It had been hours between words; first, because there were better things to do, a hunter’s body laid out before him and a boy’s libido coursing under his skin, and then because it took time to think of what to say. To catch his breath.

 _You look sad_ , would never have worked, not on any of the steel-hearted Winchesters. He had watched girls try this on Dean in his father’s jacket and his carnivore's grin, on Samuel in his brother’s sweatshirt and a thunderous scowl all his own. _Do I, darling?_ Dean would croon, wrapping a hand around the girl’s waist, assured of his welcome. _Good thing I’ve got you to put a smile on my face_.

 _I’m fine_ , Samuel would snap, hunch his shoulders and move away.

 _Who’s Sammy_? wouldn’t work any better, even if Dean had shattered in his climax and given away the name. Azazel had seen the oldest boy threaten to slice throats for less, for a look that lingered too long or a persistent interest in the boy protected by his brother’s knife.

“I’ve got a – I had a partner,” Dean mumbled, tripping over the words and shifting uneasily where the boy’s fingers tried to map out his scars. “’S a rough job.” He swung his legs off the bed and reached for his jeans, hunched his shoulders just like his little brother did to shut the world away.

“What – what happened to your last partner?” Azazel asked, let the boy’s girlish voice tremble over the words, clutching the sheet to his chest like a maiden. “Did he . . . die?”

Dean snorted, and Azazel exhaled in relief. Not dead, then. Samuel Winchester wouldn’t do him any good if he wound up gutted by a werewolf before the starting gun.

“Nah.” Dean shimmied into his trousers, fastened the buttons — no zippers for John Winchester’s sons, nothing to give them away to the monsters that lurked in the night — and tucked himself away piece by piece. Azazel felt a boy’s dismay, that there wouldn’t be a second round. “He went to college. Got the university and the god-damned government to pay his way,” Dean added, looking at the buttons on his shirt, half a smile on his unshaven face.

University. Azazel could work with that.

“Was it a good school?” he asked shyly, pushing his luck. Dean lifted his head, green eyes sharp, Mary’s fire and John’s paranoia burning through his gaze. Azazel fluttered the boy’s dark lashes and tugged on his brown hair, and Dean’s frown slowly eased away.

“Good enough,” he finally said, a line between his eyebrows as he studied the face Azazel wore. He shrugged, and looked past Azazel to some point the demon couldn’t see, his face still flushed pink with exertion but ashen below that, hollow and drained of blood. “Good enough if you were that desperate to go,” he whispered, and his fingers skittered up his chest to clutch at the trinket he wore.

Then he shook his head, slid his shoulders into John Winchester’s jacket and carved a grin onto his gaunt face. “You might consider it yourself,” he told Azazel, boisterous and smug like any boy who had just gotten laid and was thinking about heading back to the bars for another round. “Smart looking kid like you.” And then he was gone, the white flash of his shark-tooth smile and the after-image of his green eyes that Azazel couldn’t blink away.

Azazel hummed, sliding down to sprawl across the bed, stretching young tendons and muscles ready for another go. There would be plenty of boys at university — and if he played his cards right, there would be a Winchester, a boy with his brother’s stubborn chin and eyes that could be green in the right light. Azazel would need a new body, he supposed, with lighter hair and freckles across the nose, but that would be easy enough to find.

He needed to contact a few employees, if he wanted to know exactly where little Sammy Winchester had gone. But he would find him: even if he stayed a little longer, even if he shed this boy for someone new to catch the older Winchester's eye, eventually Dean would reach a hand out for his brother and give Sammy away.

**Author's Note:**

> (He didn’t stay. He went to California, and didn’t give the older Winchesters a backward glance. That was his first mistake.)


End file.
